


Aftermath

by doomedship



Category: The Good Doctor (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23263876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomedship/pseuds/doomedship
Summary: The only face Neil wants to see after the earthquake is Claire's.
Relationships: Claire Browne/Neil Melendez
Comments: 11
Kudos: 136





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Still locked down. Still waiting for the finale. Please enjoy.

Dust. 

It's the thing he remembers most when he's finally out. 

It's that choking feel of dust cloying his lungs. Of sediment scraping in his eyes as the grit clouds around him. 

And it's the dust settling over the peaceful still warm body of a woman who never made it out.

He sits alone outside the hospital while the chaos is brought under control. The entire surgical team's stretched to the limit but Lim refuses to let him work tonight, and for once he's happy to be overruled. 

He can't bear to see more blood tonight. 

He thinks about Claire. 

He always thinks about Claire, but right now it's a relentless chorus in his restless mind.

The only bright spot in this darkest night. 

***

_It's bedlam outside. Sirens wail and people do too, families crowding for loved ones and paramedics wheeling then away. Not all of them can be helped._

_He stumbles through the chaos like he's in a trance. His injured ribs throb and there's blood soaking into his shirtsleeves, but he ignores it all._

_"Neil!"_

_He turns. Audrey's there, wearing a hard hat and a distracted expression. She grabs his arm. "Hey," she says, running a clinical eye over his body, assessing and weighing up. "You okay?"_

_"I'll be fine," he says numbly. She nods once, and he can feel her attention leaving him. She's got a thousand things to do, he knows, and he sidesteps her so she can get on with them. He's looking for someone else anyway, scanning the rush of faces blindly, and then-_

_"Neil," he hears her before he sees her, and turns. "Thank God, I thought-" she's launching herself into his arms, hard hat and all, her own arms tight around his middle, and he feels such desperate, wild relief as he holds her that he feels tears spring to his eyes._

_He's oblivious to the wary look Lim throws them as she passes, but he wouldn't have cared anyway._

_"I'm okay," he tells Claire, his lips close to her ear. She's got tears in her eyes too as she pulls back._

_"Are you hurt? God, I thought-"_

_"Dr Browne, need you over here now!" Lim suddenly calls, and Claire looks torn, so he gives her a tiny nudge towards the fray, his hand on her shoulder._

_"Go," he says. "I'm fine. I'll catch up with you when this is all over. Promise."_

_And she nods and goes, off to save lives, off to do her job, and he stands in a daze and watches, and when he holds his hands in front of his face he realises he can't stop shaking._

_He might not be so okay after all._

***

She texts him as soon as she gets the chance, hours later. Finding out where he is. He's not really sure why he's still at the hospital into the early hours when he could just get a ride home, and suspects he's mostly just waiting to see her face again. 

He texts her back. 

She comes hurrying out of the hospital and spots him sitting by the bus stop, a concerned frown knitting her brow. 

"First bus isn't til seven you know," she says, sitting down next to him. He gives her a half-hearted smile, and she looks at him searchingly.

"You don't have to be okay," she tells him. "You just went through something truly awful. You don't need to be tough about it."

He glances at her, and he knows right then he'll never successfully hide anything from her, not in all his days, because she has always, always seen through his facade. He nods, wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak, so she puts her hand in his and holds it tight. 

He's vaguely aware that they've never done that before, but he laces his fingers with hers like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

"They've got things under control inside," she says. "Let me drive you home?"

He looks surprised, even a little amused in spite of himself. He's not used to Claire taking charge of him, exactly, but he finds her doesn't dislike the feeling. He lets her pull him to his feet, but he can't hide the grimace from his aching ribs as his damaged muscles move, and she's immediately on high alert. 

"You're injured," she says, a trace of alarm and chastisement in her voice. "Why didn't you let someone check you out? Are these broken?" she says, and her hands are suddenly invading, probing his side.

"It's fine," he says, catching her hand, and behind his eyes he sees the injuries of the woman trapped under a concrete slab. His bruises mean nothing. 

She looks like she doesn't believe him but she seems to decide to cut her losses there and leads him to her car instead, switching on the engine and pulling out of the lot. 

"I'm going to pick up some stuff from my place," she informs him. "Then we'll go to yours and I'll stay over in case you need anything."

He surprised by her forthcoming, no nonsense decision and he doesn't protest. He's usually in control of everything in his life, a leader, but it's somehow a relief to just let her strength carry him now. 

And besides. The last thing he wants is to be alone, and the second last is to say goodbye to her. 

***

She slings an overnight bag in the back of her car in the road outside her apartment and then she drives them down the empty streets to his place just across town. 

It's deadly quiet inside and he feels a little on edge as he flips the lights. It's weird, ushering Claire in and showing her to the guest room to drop her stuff on the bed. She follows him out and for the first time they're able to just stand and face each other in his living room.

Her eyes are wide and searching, and for the second time that night she's putting her arms around him and embracing him tightly. 

"I was so afraid of losing you," she tells him, and he allows himself to breathe in her scent and place one hand gently at the back of her head. 

"The whole time I was in there I was thinking about getting back to you," he confesses quietly, and he feels her grow still against his chest. He leans back to gauge her expression, which is pensive.

She looks hesitant, like she might say something more, but at the last second she draws back. She brushes down his shoulder, noticing the fine layer of dust and dirt on his suit jacket, and she frowns.

"We should get you cleaned up," she says quietly, placing her hand briefly on his chest and then reaching up to take his jacket from him. He winces as he twists to remove the arms and she narrows her eyes. 

"Go shower, then I'm taking a look at that whether you like it or not," she says, steely-eyed, and he can't help but smile a bit at her severity. 

The water is cleansing, like it's melting away the shadows lingering on his skin, and he turns it up as hot as he can stand until the room fills with stream. He realises as he looks down at himself that half his body is scraped up and bruised and he wonders for the first time whether maybe he did crack a rib or two when he has to bend for the soap and it feels like he's been kicked by a horse.

He wanders out of the bathroom damp and draped in a towel and she raises an eyebrow at him from her spot on the couch before he disappears into his bedroom to throw on a pair of sweatpants. 

"You decent?" she says, moments later, sticking her head round the door. She studies his bare torso speculatively, and winces at the state of the skin over his ribs, just below his elusive tattoo. "Neil," she says, and she's coming right up to him and putting her hands on his bare skin and he temporarily forgets to breathe.

She's concentrating, though, and he reminds himself not to act like a lovestruck teenager as she inspects the damage. Her fingers press in, assessing, and her brow furrows. 

"What's the verdict, Dr Browne?"

"I don't think anything's broken," she says. "But you're more bruise than person right now. You shouldn't be moving around. And some of these cuts need dressing." There's a hint of scolding mixed in with her concern, and it's oddly soothing to know she cares.

She brings her bag and starts dumping an impressive quantity of medical supplies onto the bed. 

"You planning on treating a whole army?" He comments dryly, and she shoots him a pointed look before ripping open some antiseptic wipes and attacking the cuts and grazes crisscrossing his arms and shoulders. He winces.

"You're lucky these don't need stitches," she says distractedly. Her face is inches from his as she kneels on the bed, focusing on dressing a cut on his bicep. He's content to sit back and stare at her uninterrupted like he's never usually allowed to do while she works.

She catches his eye, and seems to realise the intimacy of the position she's in, leaning over him while he's half dressed on his bed, his bare skin warm under her fingertips. 

But if she's embarrassed at all, she just shrugs, smiles, and carries on, her fingers steady and precise.

"I think that'll do for now," she says eventually, once she's done inspecting every inch of exposed skin. He shoots her an amused look, reaching for a t-shirt, but he catches her studying the tattoo he knows she must have wondered about, and he pauses.

"There's a story to it," he tells her, and her eyes dart back to his face. 

"I figured," she says. And she dares to run her fingertips down the length of it, that small touch somehow in itself more intimate and erotic than even most sexual encounters he's had. His heart thuds beneath her fingers.

"Claire..." he says, his voice uneven. She takes a deep breath, and moves her hand to his jawline, then his cheek. He covers it with his own.

"I'm- I'm gonna let you try to sleep," she says quietly. "Just come get me if you need anything, okay?"

He smiles, knowing this is her checking the balance, carefully stepping away from the brink, giving him space she no doubt believes he needs to process his run in with death tonight. 

But the thing is, he feels like he has more clarity now than ever before. He feels calm inside his head when he looks at her, no doubt in his mind about what he's feeling. 

The only thing he wants is sitting right there in front of him.

***

He wakes from a shallow sleep sweating and thrashing. 

He's momentarily disoriented, seeing ghostly hands reaching to him from the rubble before he realises he's tangled up in his own sheets in his own bed and not buried in a derelict building. His side aches.

He takes several deep breaths, rubbing his forehead before he checks the time on his phone. Less than an hour, he's slept, and he should be exhausted but instinctively he knows it'll be hours before he manages to sleep again. 

Dimly, he registers the low buzz of his television in the living room outside, and he's confused for a split second before he remembers. 

Claire, he thinks, and it's at once a soothing warmth in his chest to think of her just outside. He swings his legs out of the bed, grimacing as his various injuries make themselves known again, and he hobbles out to the living room.

She looks up at him, surprised, from the couch. She's huddled under a blanket, watching some ancient sitcom, and she clicks mute on the remote. 

"Did I wake you?" she says, concerned. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. Too much adrenaline, I guess."

"No," he answers, rubbing his eyes. "I'm the same. Can't stay asleep."

He lifts her feet up and flops unceremoniously into the sofa, replacing her feet in his lap. She smiles at him ruefully, and after a moment of contemplation she shifts herself around to put her head on his shoulder instead, curling against him and tucking her blanket around them both. He smiles down at her and puts an arm around her shoulders, his hand resting just above her elbow. 

It's the antithesis of his nightmare, and it feels like a dream.

She puts the volume back on and they sit in companionable silence for a while, his thumb moving absently over her skin. He's not following the plot of the show playing but that doesn't matter; all he really cares about is Claire beside him. Claire right here, safe, alive, in his arms. 

He'll never take that for granted again. 

Her head is heavy on his shoulder by the time a couple of reruns have finished, and he feels his eyelids drooping too. Rather than disturb them both he pulls his legs up onto the couch, stretching his body out as best he can, and encouraging her to lay out mostly on top of him on his uninjured side with her head pillowed on his chest. He pulls the blanket over them.

His neck will protest by morning, but it's more than worth it for the feel of her pressed against him, their heartbeats melding to one tempo and her soft breaths reminding him he's not alone. 

He flicks the TV off and at last, he sleeps in peace. 

***

It probably should have been awkward in the morning, but somehow it isn't. He's awake before her, woken by the bright sunlight coming in through the curtains, but he's content to just lie there with her in his arms as long as he can.

He's not sure when the next time he'll be able to do this will be, and he doesn't want to waste it.

Her slow, deep breathing eventually grows quiet, and he knows she's drifting back to consciousness. She turns her head, eyes still closed, then cracks them open. 

"Hmm, hey," she says, blinking blearily, and then her eyes widen. "Oh, God, your ribs-"

"They're fine," he says, his arms resisting her attempt to scramble off him. She shifts slightly instead, her knee finding the couch between his legs so she can take some of her weight off him. 

"I'm sorry, I did not intend to use you as a pillow when I came over here," she says with an apologetic smile.

"I wasn't complaining," he replies, pulling her back down against him, her leg between his, and she inhales unevenly as the proximity of their bodies sinks in.

"I- uh," she begins, then shakes her head. "I hope you know, I wasn't- you know. Last night, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, I wasn't trying to..."

"Take advantage of me?" he says, quirking one eyebrow at her. She blushes. 

"I know I said we were platonic. A lot," she begins, a halting quietness in her voice. "But I don't think I can be anymore. I don't want to be."

He can see the fear in her face, fear that he will reject her, fear she's got it wrong, and it's amazing to him that she could think that he doesn't feel the same. 

"I don't know about you, but I'm not in the habit of doing this with the rest of my friends," he says, tightening his arms around her. "I haven't exactly felt platonic about you for a while."

"Really?" she says. "How long..?"

"Before... Around when Dash showed up," he admits, a little embarrassed. Her eyebrows rise slowly. 

"You told me to go out with him," she says, thoughtfully. 

"I wanted you to be happy."

Her cheeks are warm and her eyes bright. She pushes herself up to hover over him, and there's only a moment of hesitation, studying his face before she takes the plunge. 

Her lips on his are like a lit match on dynamite. 

"I am happy," she whispers, and he smiles and pulls her down to him.

It's been so long since he first wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, and his whole body is electrified. 

His hands roam, tangling in her hair, guiding her lips, and he bites down gently and she makes a soft noise against his lips and he knows at once that as long as he lives he will never have his fill of Claire Browne.

He wants to flip them and press her into his couch, wants to pull every piece of clothing off her and make her gasp his name again and again, but the second he gets ahead of himself and tries to move he's brought back to earth with a jolt of pain down his left side, and he freezes against her lips with a stifled grunt.

"Oh- God," she says, flying off him. Her hair is a riot of curls and her cheeks are flushed, and it doesn't take much for him to forget his pain. 

"Hmm," he mutters, sitting up gingerly. He laughs at her stricken expression. "This is what happens when you hook up with older guys," he jokes, and a grin melts her concern.

"Older guys who've been pulling people out of earthquakes, sure," she says, and she leans down to kiss his cheek. "But it's... probably for the best if we take things slow," she says, fidgeting. "There's going to be a lot of stuff to work out."

"I know," he says. He reaches out and brushes a few curls back from her face. "But I want you to know, I'm not going to regret a thing."


End file.
